


Happiness Is Easy

by AdelaCathcart



Series: Violators [3]
Category: His Dark Materials (TV), His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: Canon Compliant, Exhibitionism, F/M, Mile High Club, Pre-Canon, Vaginal Fingering, why the fuck not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:14:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23783710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdelaCathcart/pseuds/AdelaCathcart
Summary: Catching her by the waist he pushes her into the alcove, crushing his mouth against hers, tearing at the little buttons of her blouse as he buries his face in the hot cordite scent of the aërodock that clings to her hair.The Royal Airship Safety Ordinance prohibits the use of flammable materials outside the designated smoking areas,he remembers surreally, shoving her against the bulkhead, his tongue licking her like flame.If I’m not careful the whole zeppelin could catch fire.
Relationships: Lord Asriel/Marisa Coulter
Series: Violators [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1610350
Comments: 6
Kudos: 27





	Happiness Is Easy

**Author's Note:**

> For readers following the series, this story takes place between my previous fics "Star of the Sea" and "Shadow Play." 
> 
> “They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered.” ― F. Scott Fitzgerald, _This Side of Paradise_

Normally the senior classes in experimental theology meet in a poky classroom on the third floor of the Sheldon Building, but a series of guest lectures presented by a celebrated explorer increases interest in the subject dramatically. To prevent crowding and complaints, Lord Asriel's presentations are moved to the main Lecture Theatre, and opened to students from the other Oxford colleges. Though the University discourages such liaisons as a rule, eager scholars often linger while he gathers his materials, sloppy anxious young men with more money than sense or whey-faced girls in practical shoes, with their avid-eyed dæmons trying to make themselves seem small during casual interrogations about his evening plans. Preoccupied and oblivious, he sends them skittering away every time.

During a discussion about the hazards of Arctic field work, he proposes a possible explanation for some recent mysterious disappearances in Beringland, and that evening Dr. Carne informs him that the dinner and reception in his honor to be held before his departure from Oxford next week will be a small one at the Master’s own lodgings and not, as would be customary, in the formal Dining Hall. Asriel nearly explodes.

“Don’t pretend this is anything other than a punishment, and a petty one at that! Jordan College is still an institution of learning, isn’t it, or have you handed the curriculum over to Geneva entirely since I was here last?”

The Master’s raven dæmon squawks harshly, glowering down at Stelmaria from her perch on the Master’s shoulder. “Asriel, please control yourself,” Dr. Carne says evenly. “If you had prioritized your obligations to the College over your own whims this type of censure wouldn’t be necessary. As it is I cannot allow Jordan to acquire a reputation as an incubator of heresy, and yet you seem to be doing everything in your power to give it one. Obviously I value your presence here but I’m far from pleased with the position you’ve chosen to put us in.”

“My obligation to Jordan, and yours as well, I would’ve thought, is to prevent it slipping back into the Dark Ages. This is vital work, Dr. Carne—there's merit to the Barnard-Stokes theory, and one day there will be concrete proof, it’s only a question of where it will be discovered and when and by whom. And when that happens it will change everything! The Magisterium won’t be able to suppress what people can see with their own eyes!”

“Yes, I fear you’re right. But until that happens we cannot show excessive support to research that could be construed as heretical. And when you lecture here, if you insist upon presenting work that puts Jordan at risk, you will have to have endure the indignity of an informal reception.”

Asriel manages not to call the man a coward to his face, but his displeasure must be more than evident because Dr. Carne’s stern expression softens and the older man claps him on the shoulder. “Come now, my lodgings aren’t as bad as all that. I assure you my personal chef is excellent, and you’ll be able to wear a dinner jacket instead of a robe. And I’ve got a case of wine I think you’ll enjoy.”

He wasn’t wrong about the wine, at least, and another advantage the Master’s Lodging holds over the Retiring Room is that women are permitted to attend the reception there, which makes the conversation more interesting. Over digestifs in the drawing room Asriel catches up with Dame Marjorie Astle, a professor of philology at Saint Sophia’s, and the long-suffering wife of the Librarian.

“Lord Asriel, your lecture today was really fascinating,” she says, greeting him with a kiss on the cheek. “What a shame you have to leave us again so soon. Dr. Carne must be very pleased with all the attention you've brought to the college these past few weeks.”

“As a matter of fact I think he’ll be glad to see the back of me. But I must admit I’m surprised you were able to attend. I thought you’d be too busy with your book for something like this.”

A conspiratorial smile blooms across her weary face. “You’re right, I shouldn’t be here. If my editor finds out I’m not chained to my desk he’s liable to have me shot."

“How is old Labenda these days?”

“A slave driver, thanks for asking, but one can’t complain. Actually it was a former pupil that encouraged me to come. She was seeing friends in Jericho this evening or I’m sure she'd be here herself, but you might look her up when you're both back in London. She’s young but very well-connected and seems to think highly of your work.”

“Tell me she’s beautiful as well and I’ll go right now.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but she’s married. Still, if you get the opportunity I think you’d enjoy a chat with her. Her name’s Marisa—“

“Marie?”

“ _Marisa_ van—no, sorry, wrong again, she’s not been married all that long. It's Coulter now. Marisa Coulter.”

A decade earlier in Crimea, Asriel had been stalking a deer, as much for pleasure as necessity. He followed its light tracks across a frozen lake, delighted by the chase and his mastery of it, until he heard the crack of ice beneath his feet. He’d been a strong swimmer since childhood, and Stelmaria’s panicked barks brought his Tartar companions running to haul him free, to strip him and wrap him in fat and felt by the fire, but Asriel’s heart never fully recovered from the chill that almost took him that day. Even now it sometimes races and skips without warning, and he has suffocating dreams of those endless seconds, lungs like bricks, plunged in senseless dark, _et sic in infinitum_.

He feels it again, now, in the Master’s warm drawing room overlooking the gardens, blindsided by the sound of her name.

Instead of staying through the weekend he leaves Oxford that night, getting a quick word to Thorold to collect his things from the Lodge before taking a cab to the aërodock, still in his dinner clothes, thinking he might be able to catch her. He’s too late to see whether she took the nine-thirty zeppelin but with luck her friends are pressing her into one more glass of wine, and she’ll be on the less popular eleven forty-five, and so will he. With Stelmaria barely containing her agitation, he buys a cup of coffee and a newspaper and settles into a high-backed wooden bench at the station to wait.

Eleven-thirty finds him slumped with an ankle balanced on his knee, absentmindedly sipping cold dregs from the empty coffee cup. Premature disappointment gnaws at the frayed edges of his thoughts. He's skimming reviews of new novels he’ll never read and plays he doesn’t have time to see, when he feels a little jolt of alarm from his dæmon, who's crouched anxiously under the bench. Quickly she slinks out from behind his legs, her excitement and relief pouring over him like cool water, and with an effort he keeps his eyes trained on his paper. There’s a small crowd disembarking from the London zeppelin that’s just arrived, and other passengers are gathering in line to board for the return trip. Any real show of affection between dæmons in such a public place would be improper, but no one's attention will be drawn by the snow leopard, keeping a respectable distance, being approached for a quiet conversation by a golden monkey. With deliberate slowness, Asriel refolds his paper and tucks it into the inner pocket of his greatcoat and then, only then, does he allow himself to look up.

The woman he loves is examining a timetable a few yards from the bench, wearing a fur coat and a tweed suit, and her body hidden underneath them is calling to his hands from across the empty space, the way the grounded earth calls to a thunderhead. When he turns to her she smiles politely without really looking at him, the kind of smile she probably gives to strangers. Then she calls the monkey back to her side with an impatient little “tsk,” and walks the length of the station towards the terminal where the zeppelin is moored, heels clicking brightly on the marble tile.

They avoid each other as they board. Her assigned seat is towards the fore of the ship and his is aft, but there are few commuters at this time of night and the cabin is dimly-lit for those who want to sleep, which will give them some cover. As she passes him the monkey caresses Stelmaria’s flank, too swift and subtle for any human to see.

Once the ship is in the air, a steward works his way through the cabin offering drinks. He exits through the rear door that leads towards the kitchen, and Marisa stands and walks the aisle after him as if to stretch her legs. Asriel's in the last row and she gives him that same impersonal smile as she works the lever on the hermetic door. He's beginning to find this pretense a little insulting, but Stelmaria's butting her head against his knees impatiently, trying to make him stand. "Let's go, they want us to follow," she urges.

He finds her in the narrow passage that separates the passenger lounge from the crew-only area. Steel cabinets for storage line the bulkheads and there are large window alcoves on both sides, sloped to fit into the streamlined belly of the craft. She’s standing tucked in shadow with her arms crossed, staring out forlornly into the night.

The monkey runs to tackle Stelmaria in an embrace. Marisa's head jerks up. She looks full into her lover's face and beams.

Catching her by the waist he pushes her into the alcove, crushing his mouth into hers, tearing at the little buttons of her blouse as he buries his face in the hot cordite scent of the aërodock that clings to her hair. “Stop that,” she whispers, slipping her hands under his to unfasten them herself, but he’s already tugging the hem free of her waistband and groping underneath. She sighs, annoyed, but the sound ends in a whimper as he spills her breasts into the open air. In the bright moonlight that pours through the slanted glass he sees for the first time that her nipples are sweet pale rose, the color of candy. He sucks one hard and twists the other in his fingers, and she hisses like a match being struck. _The Royal Airship Safety Ordinance prohibits the use of flammable materials outside the designated smoking areas_ , he remembers surreally, shoving her against the bulkhead, his tongue licking her like flame. _If I’m not careful the whole zeppelin could catch fire._

“Stop. Stop it,” she says more urgently, trying to pry him away. “The steward’s coming.” Of course, the monkey is acting as her lookout. She jams her finger alongside his lip to break the suction on her breast with a pop, and folds her fur coat tight across her chest, just as the steward’s shepherd-dog dæmon emerges from the kitchen and sniffs at the sweat-scented air. Marisa sidesteps them deftly and melts back into the passenger lounge. Asriel licks his mouth, which now feels uncomfortably empty.

The steward misinterprets his expression.

“Kitchen’s closed, sir. Beverage service only,” he says apologetically, indicating the glasses on his tray.

“That’s too bad. Just bring me some wine, then, would you? Belacqua in row twelve,” Asriel improvises, knowing his annoyance with the interruption gives the order an imperious tone that won't be questioned. The steward bows and goes back the way he came.

Asriel returns to his aisle seat and snaps open his newspaper, and Stelmaria tucks herself back under his legs. It’s several minutes before the steward returns with the wine, and several more before Marisa slinks back down the aisle and theatrically mutters “I believe that’s my seat,” crawling over him with an air of delicacy which she immediately belies by grasping his inner thigh as she pretends to stumble. He looks up to see her eyes are bright with amusement. "You don't mind, do you?" she asks innocently.

"Not at all."

"Thank you."

Shrugging off her coat she throws it over her like a blanket so it covers her from knee to chin. She slouches, gazing out the dark window with half-lidded eyes.

Pouring himself a glass and sipping it lazily as he looks away from her, his right hand creeps under the fur coat and, groping blindly, finds her knee. From there he easily traces the path up her inner thigh, chasing the heat which beckons from inside her loose silk drawers.

His fingertips caress her downy outer labia, and he discovers the cleft at their base and presses into it. It’s like jabbing a finger into an overripe peach: the dry velvety skin resists him for a moment before it splits and he sinks into sweet, sticky flesh. She shifts her weight slightly, sighing, but she doesn’t make it any easier for him: she keeps her knees together and it’s inhospitably tight when he dips his fingers in. That doesn’t matter. He’s found the access point and a little gentle prodding releases enough lubrication for him to move more freely. Unhurriedly, still looking away, he explores her, one finger lingering just inside to monitor her responses while the others trace the delicate contours of her cunt, studying how she wants to be touched.

“Come home with me when we land,” he suggests, working blind, the whole world balanced on his fingertips.

Her eyelids flutter and she scowls, like someone having a bad dream. “You know I can’t do that.”

“Say you decided to stay with a friend in Oxford.”

“This late at night?”

“Say the ship was delayed.”

“That’s too easily checked.”

“A problem with your cab.”

“I have my own driver. These are terrible excuses.”

"Look, if this is your idea of being coy..."

She opens her mouth to speak but before she can respond he sits forward for better leverage, crooking his index finger insistently at the little point where he finds it's the most persuasive, taking her breath away. He presses his advantage. From the corner of his eye he sees her mouth drop open in a silent moan. “You’ll think of something," he says encouragingly. There's a long pause in which he can hear her ragged breathing, and the sound of what he's doing to her, faint as snowmelt falling on stone.

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” she pleads, parting her knees a little.

“No?”

He snatches his hand back. She looks as wounded as he feels. He sucks his fingers clean (she tastes of shortbread, yuzu, myrrh, intoxicatingly sour and sweet, the promise of something infinite lurking in the aftertaste, juice from the fruit of the tree of knowledge, damn her) and dries them deliberately on his napkin. “I need some air,” he grumbles, lurching suddenly out of his seat, one fist in Stelmaria’s fur so she doesn’t embarrass him by lagging behind.

At this altitude, at this time of night, the air outside of the insulated passenger lounge is frigid. He pulls the hermetic door shut behind him and leans against the cool metal of the bulkhead. If he stands still too long he'll start to feel the ache in his shoulders and his groin, start to seriously question the cloak-and-dagger games that led him here, and worst of all start to want more. Instead he braces his outstretched palms against the bulkhead, and counts the ridges in the corrugated floor.

He counts to two hundred before the door hisses open. Without a word she slips between his arms and kisses his mouth, and while he entertains the thought of rebuffing her his eager body has made the decision for him. By the time he thinks of the right words she’s sucking his tongue so he can’t say them, and her head is between his hands so she can’t hear.

“Someone will see us,” he whispers against her lips, teasing now. She laughs softly and nips at his jaw as she untucks his shirt, running her hands over his chest.

“I don’t care.”

“Don’t you?”

He grabs her wrists, twisting them behind her back in one of his hands and yanking her blouse and jacket open with the other. He bends her forward into the sloping window until she can look straight down to the earth below. She gasps and turns her face away as her bare skin contacts the icy glass.

“Look down there, Marisa,” he croons, hitching her skirt up her hips. “We’re a thousand feet high. They can see this zeppelin for miles in every direction. There must be at least a hundred people looking at us right now. I wonder if they have any idea what it is they’re seeing.”

“You’re indecent,” she says, perfunctorily struggling. The words fan out in feathery white condensation around her lips. His erection prods the sopping fissure between her thighs, and she tenses but it’s not enough to keep him out. As they join she makes a sound like a sob. Inside she’s like a furnace. It feels so good he laughs.

“You’re really quite exquisite, do you know that?” he murmurs, watching himself slowly withdraw from her as he runs a hand up her thigh.

“Oh? I was almost beginning to think you didn’t…” he plunges back into her and she groans. “… didn’t like the look of me,” she finishes more softly, moving with him to accentuate the stroke.

“Don’t be absurd.”

“I’m being serious. Don’t you ever want to see my face?”

“Your face? I see it every time I close my eyes,” he says, not trying for romance, merely stating the facts as he knows them. Then, with sudden, brutal certainty he realizes aloud: “It will be the last thing I see before I die.”

She cranes her neck to scrutinize him and seems to conclude he’s in earnest, but her only comment is a strange frowning smile, shot straight into his heart, before she turns back to the window as if bored, rocking her hips as she does so in a manner far too provocative to be incidental. “Yes, I see someone now. On that clocktower there. Give him something worth looking up at, why don’t you?”

“Something better than your perfect breasts?”

She smirks, arching her back. “Can’t you fuck me any harder than that?”

“Really?”

“Make me scream, so they can hear it from down there.”

“Darling, you’re going to cause an incident.”

“Prudence doesn’t suit you,” she reminds him, and he chuckles because of course she's right. He reaches around to stroke her cunt with one hand while the other clutches her thigh for balance, and he fucks her as hard as he dares to. Arms folded above her head, biting the scratchy tweed sleeves of her jacket, true to her word she muffles a scream, mostly lost in the drone of the zeppelin’s engines. His fingers must be bruising the soft flesh of her buttock, he thinks, he must be bruising her inside, and there might even be tears glittering in her tight-shut eyes, but between little muted squeals she spools out a plea that works on him like an enchantment: “Yes, God, yes, just like that, Asriel, don’t stop…”

He couldn’t stop if he wanted to. She comes with a low sound like a snarl, he feels her trembling in his hands, and that strange savage utterance rolls around and around his skull, cutting through the engine hum and the howling wind outside, as she reaches back to grab his shirtfront in her fist and makes them fall together. Anyone who looks up at them now, he thinks, will see a meteor.

With the devil’s own luck they get back to their assigned seats on opposite ends of the cabin just as the zeppelin begins its descent into London. The steward eyes them suspiciously and Asriel only grins at the man, exultant, not realizing that the woman is in the aft seat now, and without thinking he's taken hers at the fore.

They’re the last people to leave the aërodock. At the station Marisa slips into the ladies’ room to put herself back together, and Asriel loiters at the main entrance, preparing a closing argument, because he can't let her go this time without knowing when they'll see each other again. Before she can pass him and dissolve into the pleasure-gardens of Falkeshall, he grabs her arm. She jumps.

“Listen to me," he tells her. "If we keep meeting in public like this, sooner or later someone’s going to catch us. Is that what you want?”

"Of course not. But..." She looks surprised, almost hurt, like a child expecting a rebuke. “We _are_ going to keep meeting, then?”

“Come hell or high water.”

“Or in all likelihood, both.” Her face is freshly-scrubbed and bleary; her eyes don’t quite focus. She's going to give in this time, he’s sure of it. “Where did you say your house was?”

“It’s called October House. White, neoclassical, on the Chelsea Embankment.” Her eyes grow wide. “You know it.”

She nods slowly, looking away. “It’s beautiful.”

Those sad eyes! He wants to throw every stone of the great house at her feet, offer her every estate and every title that comes with his name, because they’ll never be more than dead and hollow without her, but the words don’t come, and probably never will. Instead, what he says is, “Thank you.” And then, feeling he needs to hear her say yes, and he’ll beg if that’s what it takes: “Please come, Marisa.”

She chews on her lip. “Will you be there Tuesday?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes close like it’s hurting her to answer. “All right,” she finally whispers, hugging her dæmon to her chest. “Expect me at noon.”

He nods. He has what he wants, so the conversation’s over—more talk now can only spoil it. Without another word, he turns on his heel and descends the grand marble staircase, taking the steps two and three at a time.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is named after a Talk Talk song I was listening to while I wrote it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tpGkiZ7FGmg
> 
> Special thanks to Joseph Beuys for being saved from hypothermia by Tartars bearing felt.
> 
> A snow leopard barking: https://www.cnet.com/news/watch-this-rare-striking-footage-of-a-snow-leopard-calling-out-in-the-wild/


End file.
